


Nightmares, Coffee, and Something Unexpected

by buckysawsteve



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Marvel - Freeform, One Shot, Tumblr Prompt, clintbucky - Freeform, mcu - Freeform, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 03:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18160958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckysawsteve/pseuds/buckysawsteve
Summary: Clint has a nightmare. Bucky's there to help.





	Nightmares, Coffee, and Something Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> A lovely anon sent me this prompt on tumblr: " Clint has a really bad nightmare and Bucky is comforting? You are a beautiful human and I love your fics". So, what was originally supposed to only be a 3 paragraph minumum drabble turned into this. 
> 
> This fic is roughly edited, has crappy grammar and probably way to many 'ands'. My apologizes in advance.

Sometimes the bad shit that he’s seen and done catches up with him. Most of the time he can outrun it, ignore it and shove it as far back as he can and lock it up in the tightest box. But sometimes,  _ sometimes _ , it grips him so tight he can barely breathe; and it happens when he’s least expecting it. For example, he’s kind of having a really awesome sleep, or at least he had been until things took a really dark turn. 

He isn’t sure what finally wakes him up, if it’s the screaming or the fact that he’s no longer in bed. He comes to as his final punch connects with the wall, causing plaster to fall around him. He pulls back, disorientated and out of breath. 

Even in the dark, he can see the damage he’s caused. 

“Shit,” he breathes as he lets himself crumple to the ground, exhausted. 

Objectively he knows that it could have been a lot worse… that he could have had someone with him - a nice, warm body to keep him company in the middle of the night, that he could have hurt them instead. He’s never been more thankful of the fact that his love life has kind of been lacking. But that as a lot more to do with certain crappy circumstances than it does game, because boy, does he have game. 

He runs a hand through his messy hair and takes a couple deep, calming breaths before he pushes himself to his feet. A quick glance at the clock tells him that it’s well after 4 in the morning, so he makes peace with the fact that he’s awake now and pulls on a pair of well worn sweats and a wrinkled purple t-shirt that smells vaguely of last night’s dinner. He wrinkles his nose, not quite welcoming the smell of pizza but also resigning himself to the fact that rummaging around for something cleaner is a lot more unappealing.

He makes his way through the Avenger’s compound, praying that someone else would be up this stupid early and coffee would be made. He knows it’s unlikely, but he can hope. 

He feels himself perk up a little as the closer he gets to the kitchen, the more the smell of freshly brewed coffee hits him. There really is a God. 

He lets out a happy groan and shoves down the last tredges of the nightmare  he can’t quite remember. 

The common area of the compound is dimly lit and something old and croony plays from the record player that Steve had insisted on even though Tony had assured him that Friday had everything on tap. 

_ It doesn’t sound the same, and you know it.  _

_ I forget what a capcicle you really are, but here you go reminding me.  _

The memory makes a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. It’s the little things, he knows, that makes it a little easier to fight the good fight - even when it feels like a losing battle. 

He spots Bucky behind the island, a mug in his hand and his face set in a scowl that may be a permanent fixture on what Clint has deemed a little rough around the edges, but a definitely handsome face, face. He’s a little worried though because can’t remember the last time that he’s seen Bucky smile, real and genuine. 

And believe him, he’s been watching because the first time he was on the receiving end of one of those, he nearly went blind with it. 

He doesn’t bother announcing himself, he knows that Bucky’s already clocked his entrance. So, he grabs a mug instead and pours himself a generous amount of coffee, forgos any sugar and creamer. 

“What did you do to your hands?” 

The question startles Clint a little. Bucky doesn’t talk much, at least not to any of the team. Steve, though… he talks to Steve a lot and that’s pretty much a given all things considered. So instead of deflecting like he wants to, Clint surprises himself by telling the truth. 

“A nightmare,” he shrugs. “Happens sometimes.” 

Bucky sets his mug down before moving closer to him. “Let me see.” 

Clint wants to refuse, tell Bucky that it’s fine. He’ll bandage them up after. But Bucky’s not waiting for an answer and the look on his face tells Clint that he wouldn’t have accepted his refusal regardless. He takes Clint’s free hand in his own and his touch is more gentle than he’d anticipated. He turns it over, examining it and Clint kind of can’t breathe. 

No, seriously, he’s kind of holding his breath and he doesn’t know why. This is a side he’s never really seen of Bucky, a side that’s usually only reserved to Steve and any time he does something stupid that gets him hurt. Except he kind of recalls there being a lot more yelling than this. Bucky’s quiet, but the scowl is gone and is replaced with something that Clint can’t place. 

Worry, maybe? 

But why would Bucky be worried about him, a guy he’s barely had more than a handful of  _ willing _ conversations with? Clint’s a little confused. 

But on the plus side, Clint’s come to a realization that Bucky is a lot more attractive up close and now that he knows what those hands feel like (calloused, yet soft? How is that even possible?), his mind is wandering places that they have no business being. He’s a little too damaged for this, thank you very much. 

They both are, and yet - 

“Doesn’t look like you did any real damage. They’re gonna hurt later though.” Bucky takes the mug from Clint’s over hand before giving it a once over. 

Bucky looks at him, Clint’s hand still in his own. “Did you want to talk about it?” 

“What? The nightmare?” Clint sighs. “What’s there to talk about? They’re kind of part of the package.” 

That makes Bucky frown and he says nothing, just lets go of Clint’s hand and takes a step back. He’s out of the room before Clint can say anything else. 

“Fuck,” Clint mutters. “That could have gone better.” 

He drops his mug into the sink, briefly considers the beer that’s always well stocked in the fridge before deciding that maybe the whole it’s five o’clock somewhere isn’t the best motto to be living by right now. 

Still, now that Bucky’s gone and the coffee is  _ gone _ , the remnants of the nightmare are back and he’s not quite sure what the fuck to do about that. He rubs the back of his neck, frustrated, annoyed and underneath it all, he’s exhausted. But knows if he closes his eyes, all he’s going to see is blood. 

The couch it is. 

He’s sitting there, staring at nothing, when Bucky comes back into the room. There’s a first-aid kit under his arm and the permanent scowl he’s been so certain was stuck to his face, still isn’t back. In fact, he’s got that look again… the one Clint can’t place. 

Fondness, maybe?

But what’s there to be fond of? Clint was a mess on his good days. 

Bucky sits down beside him, angling his body so that he can reach for Clint’s hand. “I’m going to clean and wrap these, okay?” 

Clint says nothing, just lets Bucky do this thing. Lets himself be comforted in the care that Bucky seems so intent on providing. It’s strange, he thinks, that someone who used to deal so much damage could be so compassionate. 

Then again, he figures that some people may say the same thing about him. He doesn’t exactly live a kind life. He’s worn out, rough around the edges and a whole lot fucked up. 

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” Clint says when Bucky finishes. 

Bucky shrugs as sits back against the couch. “There’s a lot of things you didn’t have to do for me either, but you did.” 

Clint frowns, not quite understanding what Bucky’s trying to say. 

“You let me live,” Bucky says. “You forgave me. I know you did that for Steve, but I feel like I should thank you too.” 

Clint doesn’t know why he does it, or how it even happens, but one minute he’s keeping his hands to himself and the next he’s reaching over and putting a hand over Bucky’s and he’s  _ squeezing _ . 

He’s losing his damn mind, there’s no other explanation because Bucky isn’t a guy you just  _ touch _ . It’s not because he’s The Winter Soldier or that he’s damaged goods, it’s just that he kind of seems untouchable in more ways than one. 

So, maybe he’s a little more into Bucky than he thought. Which, why wouldn’t he be? Bucky’s tall, has muscles for days and he’s always sporting a well tamed beard that Clint’s always kind of wants to run his fingers through. Is that weird? Yeah, he figures it’s probably weird. 

“I know what it feels like to not be in control of your own mind. I mean, it’s nothing compared to what you went through but….” he trails off, only feeling a little embarrassed. 

Bucky looks down at their hands and Clint wonders if maybe he should pull his hand away, apologize for something... _ anything _ . 

But Bucky turns his hand over, links his fingers with Clint’s and it’s so not what he was expecting at all that his brain kind of short circuits. 

“Thank you.” 

Relief washes through him, making him want to give himself a pat on the back for not screwing up whatever this is. “Any time.” 

They sit like that for awhile, enjoying the crooning coming from the record player; their hands still joined. 

“So,” Bucky asks, “do you really think my face is handsome?” 

“What?” 

“Do you really….” 

Clint throws his free hand over Bucky’s mouth, stopping him. “Where did you hear that? It’s a lie. So not true.” 

Bucky smirks. “I have my sources and they’re never wrong.” 

“ _ Natasha _ ,” Clint groans and drops his face into the back of the couch. 

“If it makes you feel better, your face isn’t so bad either.” 

Clint only groans louder. 


End file.
